


Thread the Needle, Beat the Devil's Tattoo

by ChemFishee



Category: Generation Kill, True Blood
Genre: 2010 Fic, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She reminds you of him, and you remind you of you, and he reminds you of her. You catch yourself on the point of the triangle.<br/>(April 2010, second person POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thread the Needle, Beat the Devil's Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's "Beat the Devil's Tattoo."  
> (Originally posted [here](http://chemfishee.livejournal.com/171598.html).)

The game begins in the mid-eighteenth century. It is after – always _after_ \- a fight. He wants the forest; you want the sea; neither wants the desert. You both know what it would mean to have one without the other.  
  
You’re old enough to know the meaning of compromise and selfish enough to not give a damn.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
He leaves first. Maybe that’s not entirely fair, but you’ve never been especially interested in fairness. You walk amongst the makeshift refugee camps forgotten to history. He makes a decision. You’re not surprised when you return to the resting place with the simpering girl. But you will admit to hoping this time would be different.  
  
Her blood flows thick and salty.  
  
You lick at the taste of waves and hope you know what you’re doing.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
You don’t turn her – you don’t want the responsibility – but you do keep her longer than you should. She’s useful until she isn’t.  
  
She closes her eyes when you suck the last bits of home out of her.  
  
You’ll be there in a week.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
They find her three days later.   
  
They label her a whore, for lack of any clues. There is no justice. She is different, and she does not matter.  
  
She whispered her name once, after. It sticks behind your teeth. You know her as _She_. You know her as _One_. You know her as _Home_.  
  
You don’t know her at all.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
He knows where you’re going before you do.  
  
There’s a leaf rolled in parchment waiting. There is one word written with a hesitant and awkward hand: _Broder_.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
That night you feed from a boy who is older than he looks. He smells like earth and sunshine. You drink greedily.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
On the island of Sardinia, he tells you about the bond. There is a directionality to it.  
  
You will feel his extremes. Not of emotions, for those are human conceits. You will know when he _wants_.  
  
He will know where you are. Always.  
  
It’s a trade, weighted.   
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
That night, you drag your fangs from his elbow to wrist, teasing the vein. The burn of him taking from you is worth his annoyance.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
There is only sound and the sharp tang of brine when you get there.  
  
The water laps at your calves as you stare at where the horizon would be.  
  
You close you eyes and inhale the memory of freedom; you open them and see the reality of it.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
You mean to stay only a month. You stay two years.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
He releases you in the land of bones, not because you ask but because he thinks you could be great.  
  
You are.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
The leaf crumbles to brittle ash after two weeks.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
One hundred years later, you are not alone.  
  
She is defiant and impulsive and irreverent. She learns lightning-quick.  
  
The first time her fangs descend with a sickening crunch, she doesn’t flinch. You stroke them and name them in as many languages as you can, some long dead. One snags on your thumb. She sucks the bright red drop with eyes wide open, hungry for the liquid metal taste.  
  
You roll her in the crumbling earth that smells like renewal. She laughs and holds tight with both hands.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
She reminds you of him, and you remind you of you, and he reminds you of her. You catch yourself on the point of the triangle.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
She unwraps the small package without thought.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
When you return, she presses into your negative spaces and stretches onto her toes. There’s a rustle of heavy satin. You curl your fingers in her stiff dress – the boning digs deep into your palm – and she scents at your neck. You feel her tongue probing your jugular, coaxing it to stand out with this semblance of life.  
  
You sink to your knees like the boy earlier in the night, the one whose eyes promised naïveté and whose mouth belied experience for a crust of bread and a half-pint. The boy who breathed out wetly as he bled in a slow trickle.  
  
She falls onto the ottoman, bunching her skirts at her waist.  
  
Your lips tingle and your stomach rumbles with a different kind of hunger.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
After, you lick lazily at the healing wounds inside her thigh.   
  
She sighs, impatient. She hasn’t eaten yet.  
  
“Something came for you.”  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
A scrap of paper curls on the table. “Is this it? Where is the rest?”  
  
You feel her roll her eyes. “It was just a child’s toy.”  
  
You’re on her in less than a blink, pinning both arms above her head in one hand. The other wraps around her throat, squeezing. “What was it?” You punctuate each word with more pressure. “Tell me.”  
  
“A ball. Made of stone.”  
  
You release her and she coughs from force of habit.  
  
You watch her skirt past you and out, your shoulders slipping as the weight of responsibility resettles.  
  
A block-lettered _Fader_ floats to the floor as she slams the door.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
Later, she returns with a smear of blood in the corner of her mouth and no stockings on.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
Untamed vines snarl in orderly rows. You pick your way around them with care.  
  
He stands on the edge, yellowing grass cocooning him in a refracted glow. He rubs a worn stone between thumb and forefinger, tracing the veins of history. He smoothes a new groove in the flat face of the rock.   
  
You dip your head in greeting and catch your eyes on a collar of blue ink. You can feel the raised edges of his story imprinting on your fingertips. You haven’t even touched him yet.  
  
He wears a lazy smile and woven tunic.  
  
“I hear congratulations are in order.”  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
Italy is a different sticky than you’ve known, than you’ve adapted to. It clings in places you’ve forgotten.  
  
It makes the prey slower.  
  
He swims in long, languid, calculated strokes. He’s the same color as the moon.  
  
Sand sticks to the bottom of your feet and along your truncated lifeline. Later, it will abrade skin and fall in tiny anthills on the grass.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
He catches your tongue along the roof of his mouth and sucks deep.  
  
You know another end is coming.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
You wait in a cobblestoned alley off the palazzo. There is a wine-soaked celebration spilling out of the corner café.  
  
The edges of his smile catch around the shadows.  
  
“It’s a good vintage. Expensive.”  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
Later, he tongues a stray drop off his bottom lip.   
  
You feel lighter than you can remember. Your arm drags through the air.   
  
He laughs, disarmingly low and molasses-thick. “One like that is a treat. Two brings a threat. And three brings a likelihood of danger.”  
  
You unfurl to your full height, nearly twice his. “Then why not wait until they peeled off from the party one by one?”  
  
“There’s no challenge in that.”  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
You release her in Covent Garden.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
This lesson sticks surprisingly easy: Without a will to survive above all else, you cease to exist.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
The boat is powered not by man, but the fossilized remains of the world’s greatest predator before man, before you.  
  
You watch the steam build and release after you have drunk from one of the waitstaff. There is one in particular – burnished copper hair, eyes the color of sun-soaked sea grass, bitten raw lips – who tastes like silent determination and quiet power.  
  
You watch him and wait. You roll his blood around your mouth, savoring.  
  
You make sure the last bite will be forever remembered by two small masses of scar tissue.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
She sends you a postcard from Budapest with one sentence: _Anyone who names himself for a dragon is bound to be a fraud. –P._  
  
There is nothing on the other side where you have seen pictures through store windows.  
  
It’s been nearly six decades.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
You were in this country before, twice.  
  
You remember how it was before and before that.  
  
You decide to stay.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
She comes when you call, after a detour.   
  
She misses you, as much as she possibly can.  
  
When she arrives, she is not alone.  
  
She hasn’t turned her – she doesn’t want the responsibility – but she has kept her longer than she should.  
  
She’s useful until she isn’t.  
  
She closes her eyes as your child, your legacy, sucks the last bits of memories out of her. You lick into her mouth and swallow wet ash.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
The inconveniences start when you’re unintentionally marketed as a novel commodity.   
  
She is surprisingly adept at turning this into a profitable venture.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
There is a problem child in your area. He is an incredible drain on resources.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
You slide easily into a routine. It catches you both off-guard.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
She brings you the normal detritus of your daily business operations – circulars from the alcohol distributors, bills from the power and water companies, letters asking about missing loved ones. Across the top of the pile is a manila envelope written in a still-unsure hand. It’s thin.  
  
You dismiss her before you slice open the flap.  
  
A CD falls out, one of the homemade ones you saw in dorm rooms a decade ago. There is a single strip of paper with a simple word: _Barn_.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
You drag the CD player to the ledge where the tub fills with more-than-tepid water. He shouldn’t be able to afford this. Not yet.  
  
You sink slowly below the surface as words you haven’t heard in nearly two centuries wash over you.  
  
You wait.  
  
  
  
-


End file.
